


Cocoon

by hellhoundsprey



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Bottom Jared, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Depression, Dubious Consent, M/M, Self-Harm, Social Anxiety, Suicide Attempt, Top Jensen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-25 00:51:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10753293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: Jensen's patients don’t usually stay with him for that long.





	Cocoon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Theboys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/gifts).



> Inspired by [this picture](http://hellhoundsprey.tumblr.com/post/158868143384/truhrt-httpsinstagramcompbrydwltdu-m) and inofficially titled "Soft Daddy", this fic was hand-written secretly tucked away in a tiny yellow notebook over the course of five weeks.

This one wears a face and posture they usually bring into his office during exam periods—stressed and withheld tears, the usual ‘I can’t do this anymore’ attire. But it’s only a month into the new semester. In hard-earned foresight, Jensen is mentally reaching for the prescription pad.

“Are you taking anything?”

Nodding. “Pristiq.”

Jensen writes that down, underlines it. “Since when?”

“Half a year?” The kid rubs at his eye with the sleeve of his hoodie. “Before that, Effexor. But that didn’t do shit.”

“Was the change in medication advised by your therapist?”

“Yeah, but. I moved away, so.” Shrug. “I don’t have anyone here.”

“I see.”

Jensen stares at the tip of his pen. Scribbles ‘lonely’, places a dot behind that.

“Are you actively searching for a new therapist right now? I’m afraid I can’t do much but refill your current prescription. My job isn’t supposed to cover long-term cases.”

No eye-contact; slightly slumping body in the corner of Jensen’s vision, tall and exhausted-pale and disappearing in its clothes, in Jensen’s moss green corduroy armchair. A pause here, no ‘okay’ or ‘oh’. He’s closing off.

“Any side effects?” and Jensen can see and sense and knows the answers before the boy lists: nausea, can’t sleep.

“It’s getting worse,” Jensen is confided to, painful/tired face and Jensen can smell BO and stomach acid up to his desk. “The anxiety isn’t getting any better. Like, at all. I upped the dose like the doc said, but.” Another helpless shrug, two fingernails between his teeth, shoulders pulling in, visible itch in those legs to pull up and fold in. “It’s not helping. Nothing is.”

Jensen writes down: frantic. “You said you just moved,” Jensen reminds, leaning forward some more, hands folded on top of his notes and elbows out wide; stay open, let him come. “First time living on your own? Or are you sharing rooms with someone?”

“My cousin, um. He’s givin’ me a good price on my place. He’s got connections. I know it’s not ideal, I know.”

Jensen nods as he writes. “You have any more family nearby?”

“No. Everyone else’s stayed down in Texas. Just us two, who, like. Didn’t feel like staying in one place forever.”

“Do you have a close relationship with him?”

Shake of head.

“Does he know you’re on medication? That you’re having a hard time?”

“He works a lot, and I guess, um. His girl just got pregnant, or, an abortion, or. I don’t wanna bother him.”

“Would it bother you if the roles were reversed and he’d tell you about his problems?”

And the boy answers, “Yeah,” so clear and bitter that Jensen’s skin pulls tight.

~

The echo of that frantic one (Padalecki, Jared, born twenty-two years ago, Cancer, about six feet three and maybe a hundred seventy pounds) stays with Jensen on the bike ride from work and he’s choosing groceries with Jensen. Jensen’s hand goes for gooey mac’n’cheese—cheapest of the cheap—, an extra box of herbal tea to Jensen’s already impressive stock; chamomile and lavender.

Jensen has both, eats up (most probably unlike Jared).

And Jared doesn’t show up the next day. Or the day after that. Jensen is slowly coming to terms with the fact that he’s gone, out of his reach, and will have to have survive out there somehow until, then. Then.

Timid stink of boy, limping, bowing. Like he’s too weak to hold himself up, and Jensen wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case. Jensen allows, “Take a seat,” and pours a cup of tea from his thermos, doesn’t ask if Jared even wants any. Getting up, handing it over, Jared’s hands are ice-cold to the touch, and he doesn’t reject the beverage but he holds it in silence for the next long minutes, knees knocked together. Once the tears come, they come heavy.

Jensen locks his office, sits back down and waits.

They don’t talk that day, and Jared leaves the cup behind without taking a single sip. He takes one of the tissues, though, quick like a pickpocket. (Jensen’s pen notes: ‘self-esteem?’)

No word for Jared, toeing off his sneakers so he can sit Indian style on the armchair. He drinks the tea this time, holds back his acid reflux. Keeps on going, though.

“Did you consult a dietician yet?”

He shakes his head just so.

“Consider it. Weight loss like that can become dangerous very quickly. Is there anything you _can_ eat?”

Jared rolls his lips between his teeth, eyes on his tea. “Plain oats, like. With water.”

“Cooked?”

Jared makes the face Jensen has to hold back. “Yeah.”

“Have you thought about reducing or switching your medication?”

“No,” (so certain again), “I’m scared. That it’ll get worse.”

“Has it been worse before?”

Shake of head.

“So, what do you suppose is gonna happen?”

“I dunno.” (Loss of control, maybe. The Unknown. That you’ll have to tell yourself later that you should have known better than to be weak, give in.)

Jensen writes down: ‘dietician; oatmeal’.

Back home, Jensen showers. Turns on his music for during and afterwards and lies on his carpet to dry. He falls asleep like that, wakes sudden and drenched in sweat. Showers again, turns off the music, slips into bed.

Jared is back, again, and cries, again, but not as uninhibited as last time. Jensen is there with him through it, offering the warm silence of his office, the jungle-green walls. No tea today because Jensen is running low himself.

~

The less they talk, the more often Jared comes in. Like this is his sanctuary, second home.

“I told you this isn’t a long-term solution for you, Padalecki. And it also isn’t the library.”

“I’m not disturbing anything.”

“Yeah. Only my job.”

“How many people are coming here anyway? I only ever see you, by yourself.”

Jensen hasn’t been looking up from his notes since he decided to open his mouth, doesn’t change that when he says, “You should leave, now, before I have to ask you to.”

And that’s where something changes. Where energies shift to Jensen’s disadvantage—and he is aware of the instant loss of power, of control, like a pull on his ankles daring him to stumble.

Jared sits back, book in his clammy hands, and Jensen’s jaw ticks in blind sympathy.

“You can’t _tell_ me to leave.”

Jensen doesn’t reply. As he fails to do so for a while long enough to become a signal for Jared that he is right, Jared pulls his eyes from Jensen to his book, opens it and begins to read.

( _Could_ call for back-up, of course. Security. You’ve been here for two years now and never had to—nobody _wanted_ to be here longer than necessary.)

While Jared reads, Jensen takes a few minutes to refocus before he picks up his work where he had left it.

Therapists. Phone numbers. Addresses. Crisis centers. Dieticians. Neurologists. Urologists. Gynecologists. Hospitals. Please hold the line, I’ll put you right through.

At the deli, that night, Jensen takes his time picking out ingredients he then prepares, cooks and consumes with utmost care. A glass of the good whiskey. He lets the snakes roam free, sits on his bed; some come to him in search of warmth, some don’t.

~

Jared, tragic-hopeless and lulled into the false security of a safe space, sighs, “You’re the only one I ever talk to anymore,” which is one ridiculous exaggeration given the fact that they do _not_ talk. Or, Jensen doesn’t. (Let him come. He will.) “Like. I thought it’d get better if I moved somewhere fun. That I’d, y’know. Get carried along with it or something.” Yeah. Hoping the decision-making would get taken care of. By someone else—a higher force. “I know it sounds stupid.”

Jensen responds, “Nah. I mean, it’s a common phenomenon.”

Hesitation, then. “Are there many people like me?”

Not quite. “I can’t tell you that.”

“Don’t need to gimme names, man. Just.”

Jensen squints from monitor to student, unfolded and book-less, looking strangely like a consultee who _wants_ to communicate.

Jensen grants him information, surveys and studies about how statistics are only ever going up for anxiety cases, especially in young people. That it’s, in fact, absolutely not uncommon to feel the way Jared feels, that depression doesn’t necessarily needs to be triggered by anything. Explains that, like most diseases, it just happens. You just ‘catch’ it.

Jared is looking at Jensen when Jensen checks, uncertain and fingers tighter clasped.

Drop of eyes, “You can come back in two hours or so, but for now I have a few appointments, so.”

Jared nods, and Jensen figures he would have been this obedient if Jensen wouldn’t have lied. Grabs his (still spotless) backpack, sigh of, “Bye,” and Jensen finds himself murmuring, “See you later.”

He waits until Jared pulled the door closed behind himself before he lets his hand go to the back of the bottom drawer in his desk, right for the key for the top drawer. He unscrews a lid, one-two, swallows with the aid of tea. Deep breath.

~

Jared has green-grey-everycolor in his eyes, pinned on Jensen, Jensen’s chin, Jensen’s. Looks thinner, colder once outside of the safe home of the counseling office, exhausted drag to his too-big feet (still growing, maybe).

“You bike?”

“Yeah.”

“Everyday?”

“Yeah.” Unlocking, grabbing, holding.

“I use the subway,” informs Jared, unasked, and Jensen replies by humming, turning for the road. Grabbed by what Jensen considers sudden urgency, Jared reaches out, steps forward.

“You go straight home?” and Jensen grumbles, “Yeah,” Jared’s eyes likes hooks in his flesh and skin and pulling, always pulling but never before this desperately.

Goodbye, ride, ride, ride.

Change of clothes, gym, treadmill. Steaming hot coffee two street-corners before home, still unshowered; night-air cool on soaked fabric and bleeding right through.

There’s a drum, distant. Jensen swallows before he sleeps.

~

Jensen can make out the hints of Dr. Rashni’s number on the crumbled paper peeking out of Jared’s pocket. Asks, for the first time in days, “Any better yet?” and Jared sighs his decline like a deathbed-patient. “Are you anorexic, Jared?”

“What?” Disgusted grimace. “No.” Then, after letting the word slice him open in the right, tender places, he bursts: “You think I enjoy looking like this?!”

(You certainly don’t seem bothered enough to do something about it, s’all.) “You tell me.”

He gawps at that, so angry so suddenly Jensen having hit a weak spot is confirmed without a doubt. Dig or leave? Jared decides for him by crumbling back inside himself, cocoon of sweater and hair, mumbles like a spoilt child, “Who would wanna look like _this_?” and Jensen’s pride won’t let him throw another useless word to this boy.

And Jensen does keep sulking, until Jared has been sulking back for too long. Didn’t come in for half a week; made Jensen’s browser history accumulate links in the like of who what where to check when someone goes missing. Turns up, though, doesn’t mention how he’s been or is doing. Slight pinch to that mouth, like guilt.

He takes tens of minutes to get comfortable, once more, in the absence of everyone and everything in Jensen’s presence, before he asks (like Jensen is a real doctor, someone capable with answers), “Should I take more? Or less?” More desperate, “Tell me what to do. What can I do?”

“We can up your dose, but I can’t promise it’ll do any good. You know how it is—we’ve gotta try n’ see what works.”

Jared cries until Jensen has to send him out in favor of listening to someone else’s woes.

Jared stands wiping his sleeve over his still-runny nose, right next to Jensen’s bike, that night. Starts crying, again, once Jensen is near enough to fall into, and Jensen lets him.

Jensen is not reasonable enough to send the kid away but neither is he kind-hearted enough to not try and see how Jared reacts to an invitation for coffee. Lured in, desperate to keep his company, Jared eventually agrees. Inside the shop though, he’s an image of pure distress.

“I like coming here. The sandwiches are great, too. You hungry?” (Jensen can still surprise himself.)

Jared looks miserable while doing so but he _does_ eat. Chews, because Jensen paid, because succeeding here will make Jensen proud of him—will prove to both of them that there is hope, that this is _going_ somewhere.

Easy to imagine, to inside-witness this one. Sweat, peeled-at finger-tips. Jensen wonders when Jared last had a bowel movement – a workout – an orgasm. The tension is everywhere. It must hurt. Was it the reason for or an outcome of the depression?

Jensen asks if Jared ‘is okay’ and if he can ‘get home on his own’, and that night, that first time Jensen asks, Jared rejects him. “Yeah. Thanks for everything,” he says, doesn’t say that he’ll pay next time and maybe there won’t be a next time at all.

Jensen figures a smart kid like Jared will rumble him soon enough after a prank like that, will recede into his deepest and safest caves to nurse the hurt of yet another crumb of his rare trust. But he _does_ crawl back to Jensen’s office few days later. Unabashedly flirts for another paid and accompanied meal, the coffee was so good, I’d go alone but y’know, and, yeah. Jensen knows.

Jared Tristan, puppy-tail between his legs and reeking of that certain shade of desperation, of determination to be good, is smiling too much over his coffee (bathed in Jensen-silence) with a too-tense jaw in such a way that puts dimples up his cheeks like someone pressure-hammered them to stay. How long since he’s been at peace like this?

He’s shy, behind his pretty-white teeth, like he hope-knows.

Answers, this time: “Um actually yeah, it’d be cool if you’d, um. Just a few blocks, maybe?”

~

Muscle and bone and kidney—under Jared’s sweater and thus under Jensen’s hand.

Tension he sighs away, forces out, and Jensen feels like he’s about to poison a stray.

“Come, uh. Come up? I mean, if you wanna?”

A shiver, and all Jensen has to do is nod his head to be let in. Takes in the view: the lack of terribly bad messes next to piled laundry and dishes but there’s a gentle humming, here. Typical nest-warmth.

Jensen didn’t notice he’d stepped further inside until Jared bolts with, “Sorry,” from _behind_ him, looks weaker in the low light and Jensen’s invasion.

“It’s fine.” Jensen takes off his jacket. “Nice place.”

Jared offers tea which Jensen accepts. Lingers in the living room part of the apartment while Jared curses his way through dirty dishes; watches the nervous stutter-slip of hands and wonders if anyone’s ever beaten them before, an angry mother or grandfather, maybe; if anyone ever spent thought and pleasure on mapping them out with their tongue.

Jared labor-huffs through peeling his sweater off his malnutritioned body, leaving him in a sticky-sweaty tee and all of Jensen’s hunger.

The kettle is boiling.

“I’m sorry. I smell. I know.”

“It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

It’s painful to touch Jared, for both of them.

Like there is nothing separating them; an open, bare flood of everything—smells and textures and Jensen’s eyes water with the full-body hitch of Jared’s breath. As if Jensen burnt him with the tea instead of touching two-three fingertips to his naked, scar-less forearm.

Jared stares at his own hands holding his own huge cup of tea, just above the coffee table and ready to be put down, and overwhelmedly begins to tremble out tears. Jensen can feel the pull in Jared, heart and legs and arms, and how he is suppressing it all.

Fingers become hand, and it’s devastatingly easy to encircle that boy-wrist with thumb and ring finger. Jensen grips tighter (to feel, be felt). Rubs over the bulges of veins, wonders how quick Jared would black out with the right spot and pressure.

There is a pulse, slow but hard. Tickle-drum in Jensen’s grasp, like a bucking horse. “Easy,” low enough to calm himself and to have Jared sob out some more precious air, not-Jensen skin damp and damper in Jensen’s grip, but not pulling away.

More touching, for now: Jared’s arm becomes a handle—Jensen pulls Jared’s head in with his left on the back of his neck until they’re forehead to forehead and he can taste Jared’s acidic breath. Eyes closed, both of them; Jared maybe squeezing his but who knows. When Jensen lets him stew just long enough, of course, Jared is the one to touch their mouths together. Timid. Jittery thoughts to the likes of ‘what am I doing’ and ‘I am _doing_ this’, and, just, this _sigh_ , the _relief_ , the rush of exhilaration that Jensen ‘lets’ him do this, it’s.

Jensen’s right grips harder. Alarmed fingers scratch on him in return though barely looking for something to hold onto instead of truly seeking damage. Jared quakes, slightly, through the promise of Jensen’s skin beyond a back of a hand, a wrist, underneath the cotton of his dress shirt’s sleeve, and Jensen takes the opportunity to fasten a fist in Jared’s hair. Just a gentle pull but it tugs that head back nevertheless, like some fluid-limbed doll.

A soft, nervous sound, and Jared licks his lip. Audible swallow.

Jensen kisses him once more. It’s a relief that Jared climbs _him_ because he might not have accepted it the other way around.

Jensen’s lap is familiar with this kind of warmth; his dick begins to fill immediately. Jared mumbles, “You’re hurting me,” between their mouths and digs his fingers deeper into Jensen’s arm—so Jensen does the same, shushes and tugs and Jared bites back a whimper, rocks his ass down on Jensen’s thighs.

Jensen has to; _has_ to ask, “This what you want?” has to drink Jared’s intimidated noises, the unsure squirm of someone being afraid of the sudden possibility that they might have un-learned how to _do_ things. “If you don’t answer, I’ll have to leave.”

“No, uh—” (Hasty, dick-to-dick and Jared’s chest thrums like he keeps a herd of wild animals inside.) “—stay. Please.”

So, Jared is impatient. Bucks, wriggles, unaware and/or uncaring of Jensen’s limitations. Unmasked—and it’s a rare thing to find; innocent, in a way, making it so so easy for Jensen to be rough with it, put it in line.

Frustrated whimper from behind Jensen’s ear. (Jensen is sweating.) “You’re breaking my arm, man.”

“I’m not.”

“If you’d let go, I could…”

“Who says I want you to?”

Spoilt-hurt eyes, desperate lip. “No?”

Jensen grows a smile as he shakes his head. Jared lets him pull both his arms behind his back, stacked wrists in one hand into the baby-dip of lower back. Jared seems to observe Jensen’s face, making Jensen consider for a wondrous moment if there is something/anything showing; licks his lip.

“Keep ’em like that.”

Jared does, once Jensen removes his hold. It’s cold, without Jared’s dug-up skin under his palm. The small but entire room smells like him; that earth-salty warmth settled into every fiber and he’s only lived here for, what, a handful of months?

Jensen lets himself sink back into the couch in a sudden wave of desire to go visit Jared’s old room, back at his parents’, and drowns himself in the gentleness sitting enthroned in his lap. The twitch of thighs and what’s in their middle, when Jensen fans two hands, wide, to push apart just another inch or so. Jared begins to easen up for a smile now, one Jensen-spit corner quirking and he sits back, too, so Jensen can stare/feel his fill.

Quiet, flat-breathed, since Jensen’s right thumb inches closer and closer to the fat in-between tenting out Jared’s jeans: “Are you into that?”

“Into what.”

“Into that weird stuff. Bondage and shit. You don’t really look the type.”

Jensen’d rather have him quiet, gets that by feeling him up over his jeans in one long, hefty rub before he grabs, squeezes, squeezes. Jared melts before he tenses and then hisses, bucks.

“Fuck, watch it,” and he makes the most beautiful face on that first flat-handed clap right where Jensen felt out the crown of that dick; curl-sobs, once, and doesn’t see the one coming to his cheek. Just quakes, once, staring down at Jensen in horror (or something rather close to that).

But barely twitches his legs any more closed once Jensen claps him There over, and over, and over. Growls then gasps, took ten right on his dick that Jensen soothes now, harder and hotter now in contrast to that quiver of a boy.

Jensen feels carved out of stone.

Another smack to Jared’s face (other side now) when he won’t let Jensen pinch where he’s expecting a frenulum, whines instead. Jensen pinches a nipple in addition, sees those shoulders bulge in-out and warns, “If you move your hands, I’ll leave,” is humiliated by how out of breath he apparently is.

The kid growls, again, sagging visibly with defeat, with his silent offering of consent. Deflated-open like a laid-through pillow, and Jensen needs him bared open, he does. They kiss. Jensen lets Jared Tristan lay his long-long arms around Jensen’s shoulders as Jensen’s hands undress him in one romantic-less hurry (due to bone-deep urge, but Jared hums sweet nevertheless).

And Jared lets Jensen lay him on the floor, the obviously-not-Jared’s rug (too fancy too stuck-up too _wrong_ ) but is unsure again, worse than before, especially when Jensen tries to fit between his legs for a comfortable sitting position (to worship right).

“Woah, um, w-wait.”

“What?” The scars on the insides of your thighs I need to rub my thumbs face mouth tongue over?

“Just—slow down? This—this is, it’s a lil’ fast, don’t you think?”

Jensen considers, states, “Not really.”

He rubs Jared’s hairy-hard knees and oh God he’s so thin, he’s bones and a heart.

“Just—” He’s struggling; draining of color. Doesn’t try to reach for Jensen, curls in just a bit. “Just, uh. Tell me? Talk to me?”

“Talk. About what.”

“What yer doing. What you want me to do.”

“Lay back and hold still.”

“But…”

“You asked what I want. This is it.”

Queasy look, but his thighs allow being lifted up-open, hands curling over his chest, collar bones, scratch at his inflamed neck, sighs detention-quiet, “Okay,” like he knows he’s giving away something precious—like he _knows_.

Jensen sinks down to mouth at Jared’s cock, and it’s all easy from here. Make it sloppy, slow. Kiss, in between, like you want it to remember you.

Jared sighs and lifts and no this hasn’t been done to him in a while, he’s arching and sighing and even when Jensen starts pulling on his sac he’s remotely relaxed. Gleams down with a pout when Jensen slurps his lips off his dick, leaves him straining and wet and plucks just a little harder until Jared groans, dips his head back to detach from what he lets happen.

He keens, this time, when Jensen picks up hitting him, skin-on-skin loud and Jared’s dick reddens just like it slicks (involuntarily). God, he’s wonderful. Battered and drenched, muscles so wiry and visible Jensen’s eyes sting with it, make his mouth dry and his tongue heavy and he wants, he _wants_.

He’s got him worked up to spasming legs before he ducks down again, nose up that taint and lapping right into the strain of Jared’s asshole, forcing himself into the post-pain relief there. He pinks up ear-first at Jared’s humiliated sob, licks harder just to hear it again. Places one thumb to pull open better, slurp kisses that make both their dicks ache (he can tell, yeah, he can).

“You sonofabitch oh fuck, fuck, fuck…”

Jensen settles in, scar-ribbed thighs up against ears and his elbows firm on the ground, dick still pushing against the cruelty of his zipper. He keeps at it until Jared is rocking back onto his face, then blinks up to watch him over the curve of his cock. Almost comes untouched when two hands grab his hair (push-pull of helplessness).

And he _keeps_ watching through renewing his efforts on Jared’s dick, starts more gently than he’d like but in between lands a few on Jared’s balls for compensation. Jared’s breathing gets fucked up for good, empty tummy heaving rolling and he’s coming, finally, sudden and shocked and in gooey bursts that he yelps for like it’s hurting him, that Jensen beats out of him, still.

“Oh fuck—oh fuck, damn, _fuck_ …”

It’s a game, to get Jared to push at Jensen’s forehead to make him stop eating his ass. Jensen comes up smiling, and high.

Up on his elbows, slimed up with sweat and come, Jared wears the most flattering rash-red from hairline down to nipples. “What the fuck,” he says, laughs, then falls silent once Jensen gets up (still smiling) and walks over to the door where he had left his jacket earlier.

“Uh, where—”

“I should go,” Jensen says as he does just that.

~

Jensen dreams of him, naked on a saddle-less gray horse, tanned warm skin and reaching for Jensen to join him, whispering, “Come, come,” and Jensen wakes up restless.

~

“You’re weird.” But Jared smiles after saying that, flushing already and maybe just a little bit hard in his jeans.

“You liked it.”

Smile explodes into grin explodes into laugh. “God! Uh, yeah? I dunno…you—it…!” Quirky; shrug in his too-big parka. “You’re good at sellin’ it, doc.”

“Call me Jensen.”

“Jensen.” Keeps the name on his tongue; flat little mouth. Smiles, like a child.

~

There’s a scream in Jared and Jensen can feel it, can feel it stuck behind the bigfat lump in that throat under his fingers, lets his dick go after another quick inch and then has both hands on that long perfect line, hauls Jared back on it and—there it is. More like a bark, though.

“It’s supposed to hurt.”

The kid wails on the drag out and he wails on the slam-in. Hitched hips in a bolt away from Jensen’s dick, knees giving out and elbows following along. But Jensen’s got him, caught him good, and plows him through the first ugly agony. Feels Jared’s growl more than he hears it through the smacks of lube and skin, Jared’s insides protesting against the assault nobody warned them of, prepared them for.

A heartbreaking squeal when Jensen pulls his elbows back and pushes his hips out wide, forcing as deep as Jared’s narrow body will allow and holding himself there, feeling everything, being one with every throb and tremor and Jared gasps like a fish once he can.

It doesn’t take long, like this. Jared seems surprised when the ride gets so much wetter, when Jensen drapes over him and kisses up all that fascination. Chuckling from Jensen at Jared’s tired-hurt yelp, the nice smack of hand on ass and then hand on dick. He’s still hard, still in there, and Jared flutters around him like some pinned insect.

“Come,” he demands. “C’mon. Jus’ like that.”

Takes some effort until it works, until Jared seriously clamps down so full-body and violently they both go breathless with it.

Doesn’t take much to turn him over, fuck him full once more.

Jared’s got slobber all the way up to his eyebrow when Jensen lets him peel his beet-red face out of the sheets.

Military shower; a washcloth for the boy who cleans himself wide-spread under Jensen’s watchful eyes. Slack little face, nearly completely black eyes ’cause of the drugs, s’all.

“You do that a lot?”

“Do what.”

“Sleeping with your patients.”

“No.” (You’re the first.) One hand to that foot, cradling a heel. “We’re old enough to decide for ourselves, so what’s it matter. But if you want to, we can stop. Like, right now. Whatever you want.”

“It’s okay,” claims Jared.

Jensen brought a variety of snacks for Jared to try. More treats than nutrients, but the kid needs its sugars, doesn’t it.

Jensen watches him picking chocolate bars apart, suck around the candies and nuts. Mashes and finger-feeds bananas and strawberries.

For producing a perfectly round pill from his bag next, Jensen gets a, “What’s that?” he quiets out with his trustful silence, the calmness he earned, and just like any dependent thing, Jared swallows, because how could he not?

God, he’s so soft. Trembles like some newborn, something only Jensen’s.

Call’s, “Jen,” like a plea, like ‘help me’, but Jensen doesn’t, and he won’t.

~

Later, under the moonlight, Jared rasps, “Don’t you ever do that again. What the fuck.” But he needs him. He just doesn’t know how to ask right.

~

Maybe the dose was off. Jensen experiments at home, but the pills work differently on him so he comes out none the wiser.

The pharmacist side-eyes the patron with the long-long prescription lists, the thin skin under green eyes and paleness of freckles under heavy glasses.

Jensen throws in cassis cough-drops and bear-shaped vitamins, just because.

~

Jared won’t let Jensen in after The Mistake, but he _does_ drag himself back to his office eventually, love-sick and tender under covers only Jensen knows how to pull back right.

The pain is humiliating but Jensen’s got himself in this shit all _by_ himself, so he’ll have to sit through it. “It was a mistake,” he grumbles, clicking away on his computer while he feels Jared looking up from his current book. “I won’t do it again.”

Jared intervenes, “It—it was—Jen. Jen. It was, basically…” (That tongue doubles over; loopings wrapping around Jensen’s name.) “You can’t do that. Ever again. You have no idea how…”

How scared you were? Yeah, no, I knew. “I’m sorry. Can’t I make it up to you? Somehow?”

“You… No, dude, that’s not what this is about. You can’t buy yourself _out_ , you can’t drug someone out of their fucking brains, Jensen, and treat them for some apology ice-cream later. The hell’s wrong with you.”

“So you don’t want me to apologize?”

“No. Just—don’t _do_ it again!”

“Okay.”

“Promise.”

“I promise.”

Despite talking it out, Jared keeps sulking. Withdraws again, and before Jensen knows a month has passed since they met outside of his office. A month of bowing and waiting in patience. Crawling at someone’s feet.

It hurts, to be left to rot like that. To be discarded without being given the chance for redemption. Is this even worth it?

Jensen spies on the stubborn thing: whiney-tough and seemingly untouched by the ever-nearing end of the semester. It strikes Jensen that Jared never named his major (nor minor), that he’s never disclosed this perfectly normal fact about himself to his fucking college counselor, and it makes Jensen furious.

Thank God that the forthcoming studies birth more insecurities, more failures. Jared has to be sent away, a lot, and most of the appointments are in fact _not_ products of Jensen’s spiteful state.

Jared eventually allows to be dragged for coffee and sandwich, doesn’t look happy but it’s _some_ thing. With a foot in the door like that, all Jensen has to do is shimmy a lil’ bit more. Hand close to Jared’s without touching but hinting that it’s possible, available, if only Jared puts in some work in as well.

“How’s school, anyway?”

Jared half-shrugs. He’s got some color on his face, a hungry pinch and a side-eye for another sandwich (or Jensen’s hand).

“Do you still like it?”

“Dunno. I don’t go, kinda.”

“Because of…?”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why should I?”

“Do I really gotta remind you that you’re paying a fuckload of money for school—you should _do_ something! I’m just. Jay. Hell, that’s something to tell your counselor.”

That’s Jared’s hand in Jensen’s, now, and Jared didn’t have to move for it and Jensen feels needy but God, that cold-damp-thin skin and Jared’s pain-starved eyes, and.

“I can help you,” promises Jensen, whisper-quiet. “I’ll talk to people. Get you refunds, or, something. You idiot.”

“…Thanks.”

Gentle twist so Jared’s hand is facing up, cupped securely in Jensen’s.

~

“I dunno,” murmurs Jared, later, after his well-earned second sandwich, in front of his own apartment and with Jensen’s spit on his tongue, with Jensen basically on his knees.

“Why not?”

“I dunno.”

“C’mon. You liked it. Remember? I’ll make it good for you. Know I can, huh.”

Jared doesn’t stop him from fondling his crotch out in the corridor. There’s still a weak protest—pliant noise from that pale throat—but Jensen is in already, Jared just doesn’t want to accept that yet.

Jensen likes: the noise of Jared’s jeans falling from his nothing-legs, right to the floor. Likes the gasp on one hand to dick, one to throat. That little click when Jared fights to swallow.

Jensen likes: the utmost gentleness Jared uses to touch him in return—too scared _not_ to hold on, but not panicked enough to _grab_.

Likes: the loud click of a door lock.

Kiss and eat, fingers curled up just under cockhead. Jared’s leaking, for Jensen. Is so hollow-full, for Jensen. Is hurt when Jensen’s kneeling turns out to be the plot for fishing for Jared’s belt in the heap of jeans still caught around his sneakered feet. Jared sways backwards in a quickly-over scene but Jensen _is_ granted those wrists. Secures them behind that back, dips his nose behind Jared’s ear and hugs him for a moment, like this.

Jared jokes, “Kinky,” when they part and only half-blinks on the backhand, presses his mouth thin from here on.

Using his bodyweight, Jensen traps the kid between himself and the door. Can feel his blood pumping like this, how chest and belly struggle to keep up a breath under the given pressure.

A knee between Jared’s legs, a nudge up. Kiss to that (now bared) throat, next to the long-faded marks from Last Time.

Jared sighs once released, newly-sucked skin blueing already, trippy on his jeans-tangled feet on the anew grip to his dick, fast pump to make him pliant, easy. Jensen kisses, kneads a nipple. Claps once, mean, right over the tip, and that makes Jared jolt and curse. He starts with, “Dude—” but Jensen’s got this; jerks him off, again, hard and fast enough to make his wrist ache soon and with one forearm across Jared’s windpipe. Watches him struggling to hand this over, to let Jensen take care of him right.

Jensen’s arm bears down harder on the next hit, and Jared jolts but stays. Silent glimmer of tears and head turning red-hot but his thighs shake open, hips pushing out because he knows Jensen will make it better. And Jensen does.

Easier than any leash, really; Jared gladly stumbles after the tug on his dick but feigns resistance once it’s clear that Jensen is going for the bed.

“Dude.”

“Come on.”

“No, jus’—can we talk, about this?”

“You want to talk. Now.” Jensen raises an eyebrow before he twists his palm over the squelch of Jared’s glans.

And Jared glares, flushed to almost-healthy and barks, “Yeah,” pity-weak in his knees though so Jensen has easy game on manipulating him closer to the bed.

Jensen makes his hands and face extra-soft. Leads Jared to lie down after making him sit. Kisses up shins after removing jeans and sneakers and socks.

“Like, um. Like. I thought about it, and. We should, Jen, seriously, we shouldda use some kind of. Protection. I mean, Jesus, we—I don’t even _know_ you.”

“You say that with my mouth on these.” The muscles in Jared’s thighs quirk at the drag of lips, would have done so with or without scars. “...There’s fresh ones. You started again?”

Jared insists, “It’s none of your business,” but lets Jensen kiss it better. Lets him suck on them, too, and Jensen tastes blood just to make a point.

Says, “Fine,” though. “I don’t have any. You?”

“Top drawer.”

Together with the lube, huh. So, Jensen’s part of Jared’s very own plots.

Jared doesn’t watch Jensen rolling on the condom, and Jensen wonders if he’d notice if it was being pulled off midway or so.

“You gotta be more careful.”

“Why.”

“Cause I couldn’t take a shit, for like, a week. After last time.” Queasy face (that Jensen never wants to not-see.) “I mean, I’m not a girl, but. Just don’t…y’know.”

“You seemed to enjoy it.”

“Yeah, after a while? But you can’t just—ram it in like that.”

“But isn’t that what it is about?”

“What?”

“When it hurts,” Jensen says. “The stimuli. Adrenaline. Endorphins.”

“No…s’just, uh. It just…hurts, man. It’s supposed to feel _good_ , y’know; _nice_.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Huh?”

“Forget it.”

Better leave the condom on, this time.

~

Jared transfers the cooling pad from eye to wrist. He pets through Jensen’s hair all the while. It’s nice, kind of.

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

“No,” grumbles Jensen. “You?”

“Back home, yeah.”

“Hm.”

“Not that it’s working out, but. I dunno. Neither of us wants to say the obvious, y’know.”

“When’s the last time you guys talked?”

Jared sighs. Relocates the ice. Yeah. Sounds about right. “I told her about you.”

Jensen looks for Jared’s eyes at that, finds them small, distant.

“Not about, uh. _This_ , but.”

“She knows about the depression?”

“Yeah. Never said it’s bothering her, but. I mean, I’m not blind.”

“Does she know you from before?”

“Yeah.”

Jensen hums his jealousy away.

“Said she didn’t notice, though. When it started. It was all kinda fluid, then. In my case.”

How—could anyone not _notice_. Jensen can even _smell_ it, right now; rotting-sweet and sour and oozing from the cuts on those legs. Jensen’s mouth opens to say just that—she’s useless why would you even date someone like that why would you give yourself to someone who doesn’t even grasp the basic _idea_ of who you _are_ —and, instead, closes again.

He says it with his eyes though, repeats the words in his head over and over and over and maybe Jared _does_ hear him, because he smiles, a little, sheepishly-caught and says, “Hey, it’s okay. I mean, in the end, it was me who ran, right?”

“Was it worth it?”

“Huh?”

“Running.”

Jared shrugs.

Jensen decides on having talked enough for today.

~

“Did I piss you off or something?”

Jensen raises his gaze in question.

“You’re not talking.”

“Well, I do that.”

“‘Well’, is it cause I said something? Or what? I never know what you’re thinking.”

Bullshit. You get me a freaking lot, all the time. “It’s got nothing to do with you. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

Jensen ignores the darling frown, flicks through notes on someone not-Jared.

“I talk when I need to, and that’s that. Anything else would be a waste of energy. End of story. So, either _you_ talk, now, about whether you’ve made any progress or regress, whether you’ve called the specialists I looked up for you over the past few weeks, whether you’ve contacted your parents like I asked you to weeks ago—”

Jared leaves, door-banging, and behind remains a sigh that Jensen claims for himself.

~

Jared’s birthday passes Jared-less, and after another three days Jensen grows worried enough to send himself onto Jared’s doorstep, unannounced and unwanted, but he _can’t take it_.

Knocking is so much easier once he confirmed the absence of any sign of decay in the air.

No movement from inside, for a long while.

Jensen tries again, again.

Leans closer to the door to listen, hard. Imagines the boy sitting, somewhere, close; scowling at the door.

“Jared. Come on. I know you’re home.” (Quiet, careful.)

From far away then, “Leave.”

“Are you okay?”

Silence.

“Jared. Jared.”

Now, right behind the door, “Leave,” growling not like a lapdog but a full-grown beast, ugly and hurt and Jensen smells blood, and.

Hands on the door—he can _feel_ him, slumped against the other side of it, troubled breath and he sure as hell didn’t crack a window for days, didn’t _eat_ for days.

Jensen breathes, “Don’t do it, okay? Do it to me, if you must, but.”

“I’ll call the _cops_ , doc, I mean it!”

“I won’t come in. I won’t. But you gotta promise me that you’ll stop being so fucking reckless, you hear me?”

Silence. (It rips at Jensen now, tosses him like it hasn’t in forever.)

He slows his breathing to prevent any more spiraling panic, leans his head to the door not to listen any more but solely for the support it grants.

“Stay alive, okay? I need you to do that for me. Alright? Just breathe. Drink some water. I’ll leave you some pills out here that’ll help you sleep, and when you wake up you’ll be better. I promise.”

“…You’re roofien’ me again? Seriously?”

“No. Listen to what I _say_. I’m not _lying_. I’ve never lied to you, now have I? I need you to get better. I want to see you again.”

“Just _go_ ,” chokes Jared, and Jensen leaves the promised drugs, and then he leaves.

~

Jensen hasn’t been this bad in ages. The snakes know. Even the plants seem limp as they are objected to his emissions—energies, pheromones, metabolites. Everything is acid and salt; Jensen’s mouth and eyes dry but he can’t keep anything down, as if Jared infected him.

Curled up under his bed, Jensen grits teeth and bones and thinks about how he doesn’t have Jared’s parents’ phone number, was too soft-stupid to force it out of Jared’s mouth or fingers.

The python slithers by to check on him, withdraws in disinterest though when Jensen glaringly warns her to keep her distance. He’s sweating through his shirt, his sweatpants.

Jared must be alive. He must be. It wouldn’t hurt this bad if he wasn’t.

~

hey

hey.

did I wake you?

no.  
how are you?

I slept, like you said

good.

I’m sorry

don’t be.

I’m so sorry  
I don’t wanna be like this

I know.  
it’s okay.  
can I come over?

you don’t wanna be here  
trust me

jared tristan you goddamn idiot  
shut the fuck up and let me help you  
let me

ok

~

Jensen bikes through the sleeping city. It’s close to three a.m. and he’s pouring clean sweat.

He’s alive. Alive.

~

A weak voice announces that the door is, in fact, unlocked, so Jensen lets himself in. The mess starts in only halfway to the bed and barely slows him down.

Jared weakly tries to muster up a smile, grunts when Jensen draws back curtains, rips open windows and then grunts harder when Jensen crawls up to him, scoops what’s left of him into his arms and squeezes (in the hope that Jared’s stupid-ill brain will finally realize that he is, in fact, not alone). Jared moans about how he hasn’t showered in a week and Jensen inhales that much harder, all that grime and proof of a living organism _that_ _hugs him back_ , that drapes twig-arms around Jensen’s back and makes a wounded sound upon being kissed.

Tries to turn his head away, mumbles, “No, I’m filthy as shit,” forcing Jensen to croak an, “I don’t care,” forcing Jensen to force himself onto him with all of his own mess and feelings and headspace. There is no pain anymore, bare residues maybe Jensen can gladly overlook. Jensen smothers Jared’s freshly cut arms, will get to the thighs later but doesn’t yet have the stomach to lift any covers. Kisses, gently, watches out not to scrape fresh stubble over tenderness.

Exhaustion settles in, sudden and final. Stray traffic noise reaches them up here, twelfth floor, and the breeze might be mild outside but feels cool in this overheated room.

“I brought milk. And oats. And fruit.” The words feel slurred, even weaker than the thump from inside this paper-thin chest.

Jensen wakes up indefinitely later to the shock of Jared not lying in his arms (where he had left him), then a curse when he’s only a few feet away, on the edge of the bed, watching Jensen with a half-finished bowl of oatmeal in his lap.

“I didn’t wanna wake you.”

“You should’ve.” Jensen looks for a clock, a watch, anything. “What time’s it?”

“Do you have work today?”

“No, I called in sick, just. How long was I out?”

“A few hours? I dunno.” Jared lifts the spoon towards Jensen. “You want some?”

“No. How’re you doing?”

“Well, I showered. So that’s something.”

“You should have called me in. I could have helped.”

“Helped.”

“What.”

Jared raises an eyebrow.

“ _What_.”

“I’m not a baby.”

“You sure act like one.”

Jensen scoots closer to inspect the sporadic bandaid-work. Jared closes his legs once Jensen’s about to peel at the ones on his inner thighs.

“Let me.”

“No.”

“That bad?”

Jared scoops more oatmeal into his mouth.

“Goddammit Jay, you—what if you hit an artery, huh? You wanna bleed out into your fucking _legs_ , s’that what you want?”

Jared stares into his food.

Jensen spanks the top of his thigh, just inches away from the cuts.

“DUDE! Stop!”

“Fucking hurts, doesn’t it!”

Jared barks, “Yeah!” and turns his body away, stiff and afraid and clasping his food like a lifeline. Jensen’s hand hurts from the impact of what it did; had hit harder than he’d needed to in order to get his point across and God he knows he knows, but.

“You’ll stop that shit, you hear me?! You will fucking STOP putting your life in danger like that!”

“I know what I’m doing! I’m not—” The hit whips Jared’s entire body around.

“Don’t tell me—it’s too deep. You have no fat on you, you’re hitting MUSCLE and you’re hitting NERVES, you fucking MORON!”

Jared, now holding his cheek and staring up like he’s seeing a monster. Croaks, “How can you _know_ that. You can’t _know_.”

“I can and I do, so fucking listen. To. Me,” and he blinks once, twice.

Should leave. Should leave. Before you explode. Before you lose control.

Lips taste like salt, tongue numb and sudden cold sweat and, “I told you. Told you to do it to me instead. I can take it.”

Jared squints (at the sudden drop of volume, of aggression?), stutters, “What the fuck.” Scoots away some more, tries to heft himself up. “I don’t—man, I don’t do it just for the sake of, of cutting _some_ one. You’re a fuckin’ doc, shouldn’t you know that kinda shit?”

“I know,” huffs Jensen, breathless now and head down, on Jared’s bed, “I know, I know, jus’. You wanna feel? Wanna feel alive? I can do that. Let me do that for you. It’s safer. It’s better.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I do.”

“You’re not even listening.”

“I _am_ ,” he insists, “all the time. I know. I understand. Why won’t you _listen_?”

“It gets your fucking rocks off to beat me up; man, I understand you better than you think.”

Jensen almost beats him then. Sees himself doing it from another perspective, from outside the window—can feel Jared’s skull under his own shattering knuckles, feels all of the ugly throb of it, and.

Cries. Cries. Overwhelmed, unstoppable; curls up into himself and won’t let Jared touch him.

Time passes, like that. Jared is moving around less and less tip-toed the more he realizes Jensen isn’t paying attention to anything but his own pain. Jensen hears the TV coming on. Hears Jared going through the grocery bag he’s brought; hears him crunching through one of the apples.

It’s about to get dark outside by the time Jared nears the bed again, climbs atop Jensen’s back. Carefully strokes up his spine.

“How’re you, doc?”

Jensen grunts

“You’re such a weirdo. Anyone’s ever told you that?”

Jensen doesn’t feel like talking.

~

Jared’s weak-limbed. Is tight on the push-in and stays like that, like a wrench, and he sobs darlingly.

“Jen. Jen. Fuck.”

Jensen pulls out midway, slips the condom off. Guides Jared’s hand to line him back up, nudge up and in, and Jared only makes one wounded noise. Like Jensen is his brat, insatiable, irresponsible.

Jensen whispers knuckles from dick to wounds, licks at Jared’s throat while getting his hair pulled on, while getting his dick wet. Slurs, uselessly (but he’s so lonely, so lonely), “S’cause I need you. So much. Jus’—I need this. You.”

Jared doesn’t reply. Keeps his hands on Jensen though, even in his sleep. Doesn’t wake when Jensen does, when he presses back to where Jared’s body is the most receptive, the most vulnerable. All Jensen has to do is to pry him open, just a little, to get this connection going—a direct line to what could easily be Jared’s heart. Those innerst, most secret, darkest places.

Jensen likes him pliant, like this. Falling limbs and soft eyelids, gentle breath and no worries.

He’s having a nice dream. About what? About whom?

Jensen loves him slow, careful, and he stays until he’s counted too many of all the hairs on Jared’s head to stay awake.

~

There are no plants in Jared’s home. Says he’s got a black thumb, but Jensen figures he’s just lazy; can’t even maintain himself after all.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause I have the runs. ’Cause _some_ one has an aversion to latex.”

“Then we’ll do it in the bathtub.”

“…What the hell, doc.”

Jared lets himself get lead, kneeled and fucked though, just like Jensen wants and promised. Is flushed harder in contrast to the even paler tiles. Doesn’t say his knees hurt; doesn’t say a single thing. Just huffs his sacred breath, slips a gut-punched groan here and there. Maybe doesn’t like the echo in here, hearing his own voice that loudly. Maybe prefers concentrating on the body-noises—wet and forced, kinda archaic, blunt.

It’s not messy, not at all, until Jensen pulls out. Well, Jared didn’t lie, but. Everything has its price.

“Hey, Mick. Yeah, it’s Jensen, um—listen, can you do me a favor? List a Padalecki Jared as absent for today’s exam? Vet med one. Yeah. I just brought him to the hospital, and…yeah. Yeah, it’s fine. Thank you, man. See ya.”

Jensen brings the fresh bowl of oatmeal to the couch, Jared on it and embarrassed, to say the least. Takes the food though, without comment and with thank-you eyes.

Jared takes his pills under Jensen’s supervision, and looks at the new ones for a moment—before throwing them down his throat as well. And he says, “Thank you,” as if Jensen wasn’t melting already.

~

Jared, who really shouldn’t have it in him to move after Jensen having decided on being done, gets a weak hold on Jensen’s sleeve.

“Don’t leave me.”

“One hour. I’ll grab some stuff, feed the snakes. One hour, Jay, okay?”

Jared frowns. “You have snakes?”

“I’ll be right back. Sleep.”

“Can I come with?”

Jensen shushes an already rising boy, presses that chest back down into the softness of freshly changed beddings, where it belongs.

“Please,” Jared mouths, eyes falling shut. “I wanna see ’em. They got names?”

Jared is a mostly-dead weight but (for once, fortunately) not much of that. Clasps onto Jensen’s back, head on his shoulder, and Jensen bikes them across town. The apartment is quiet when they enter it. Jensen tries to imagine what it looks like to Jared.

“Jesus fuck, they’re huge.” Jared gawps at the terrariums like a child, yawns heavy and blinks heavier while Jensen packs a weekender worth of necessities. “Hey. Hey snake.”

“Don’t tap the glass.”

“Is it a boy or a girl?”

Jensen looks up and over to see which one attracted Jared’s interest. Sees the reptile nearing the curious sad human, how she flicks her tongue, might confuse Jared with him, maybe, since she’s judging by smell. “The boa is female. All of them are, except for the Kingsnake.”

“There are more?”

“They’re sleeping.”

“Why not this one?”

“We woke her. She’s very tame. S’almost like having a dog.”

“Can you take her out? Can I pet her?”

“No. Let her be.”

Jared sits back in defeat, chin on his knees. The boa keeps little distance, tries to smell the finger still-smudged against the cold thick glass of her home. When Jensen returns from the bathroom, Jared is curled up on the floor, sleeping.

Jensen sighs, loudly, eyes flicking through the sparsely-furnitured room as if there was anything to help him. He ends up kneeling down, nudging Jared’s shoulders, murmuring, “Hey. Hey, c’mon. Let’s go.” Jared mumbles incoherent nothings, ignores. So, shit.

What now? Impossible to use the bike, not with the bad and the comatose. A cab. But Jared isn’t moving.

Jensen hefts him onto his bed. Takes off shoes, wrestles off a denim jacket, jeans. Glares at the boa who seems fairly entertained. “That’s mine,” he warns, when she won’t stop tonguing for the oh-so rare company.

Jensen can’t sleep. Is too restless with Jared’s presence so unfamiliar in his own home, too much energies the rooms aren’t used to, are stuffed with to the brim. What if he wakes up and uses the bathroom? Sees Jensen’s stuff. Maybe finds the razors, the pills. Or, wakes up and is thirsty, rummages through Jensen’s fridge, his cupboards.

Jensen sits on the edge of his own bed, arms crossed tightly, and watches Jared sleep.

~

It’s a few minutes shy of nine a.m. when Jared stirs awake. Frowns with small-small eyes until he finds Jensen. Rubs his face, reaches for an arm, a leg.

“Whuzzgoinon.”

“You fell asleep. Last night.”

More confusion, looking around. “This your place?”

Jensen nods. Lets Jared entangle their fingers, rub Jensen’s hand against barely-stubbled cheek.

“You sleep at all?”

“A little.”

“Liar,” yawns Jared. “Maniac.”

“If you’re awake, let’s go. I’ll call a cab.”

Jared makes a face. “Why don’t we jus’ stay here? I’ve been wanting to come here like, forever.”

“Because you left your medication back home. And because I don’t bring people here. Period.”

“Why, you afraid I’m gunna clepto out on you? Piss on your carpet or something?”

“No. And no. It’s nothing personal.”

Jared groans, “Uh-huh,” and lets go of Jensen’s hand so he can sit up, scratch through his hair, squint through the nonexistent gaps in Jensen’s blinds.

“Look,” mutters Jensen, already rising to his feet, “I’ll call a cab. Ten minutes, max. You better have pants on by then.”

Jared, still druggish-slow, huffs, “Ya, _Dad_.”

Jensen makes the call in the kitchen. Hides there, can hear Jared taking a piss through the thin walls. Listens for his socked feet on the fake-wooden floor. Feels like running when they lead to him. Feels small, looking at the boy in the door frame, all sluggish and exhausted in the same pair of jeans he’s been wearing since the day they first met. Just another patient, really. Another sad kid.

It’s bad. It’s real, real bad, with Jensen.

“You’ve got coffee somewhere?”

“The car’ll be here in a minute, Jay.”

Jared helps himself for a glass of tap water instead, without asking for permission. Not that he’d have had to ask, but…he’d have had to. Jensen should point that out but doesn’t.

Jared leaves the used glass on the kitchen counter.

~

Jared sleeps through Jensen vacuuming his apartment, through changing of sheets and airing the beddings. Spread eagle with his wrists bound to the legs of his bed, all he ever does is pull his knees up (if anything at all). Jensen wipes and washes. Makes a quick dash to the 7-Eleven across street because Jared’s out of detergent.

Back, and Jared is still out. Jensen feels for a pulse even though the kid is clearly breathing. Runs his knuckles down a bruised cheek, along a blueish throat, just for the sake of touching. Of reminding himself that Jared is here, and alive, and well. If not well-well, then at least safe.

Kid’s always so pale.

Jared wakes upon being shoved into, not upon Jensen having draped himself over him minutes ago, or Jensen kissing him for what escaped Jensen’s sense of time. Whines, tries to flail, but folds his legs up and out like he’s welcoming it (Jensen).

Jensen is up on his forearms, buried deep-hot with ice-cold feet jammed into his kidneys, and he stares.

Jared’s eyes, refusing to open but restless under paper-thin lids, the right one so so blue—the split in his lip, the stubborn chin.

He goes about it carefully, just so Jared won’t stir or wake any further. Just so he’ll keep making sleep-sounds, despite Jensen having him.

It’s insane, being this close with someone. Jensen comes on that fact, despite the slow-slow pace, and holds himself still through the shocks of it.

Maybe Jared was awake for the silent tears because when Jensen returns from the bathroom, he’s blinking at him, tells Jensen, “You’re weird,” and adds all-soft, “You okay?”

All there is for Jensen is to nod.

~

The bruises are fading. Merging back into Jared’s original skin tone and pushing away all of what Jensen had left. Jared is the calmest and maybe happiest Jensen’s ever seen him, and Jensen wishes it wasn’t the drugs. (But that’s not how these things work.) They’ll reduce the dose, soon. When Jared’s stable. When Jensen says so.

“Jane’s coming over this weekend.”

“Jane who.”

Jared peels at the hem of his sweater sleeve, shiner almost-gone and reminds, “My girlfriend,” as if he’s told Jensen a hundred times already. “I told you.” Yeah, whatever.

“That’s nice.” Silence. “I’m sure you guys have a lot to catch up with.”

“I was wondering,” murmurs Jared, under his weak-soft breath, “if I should do it.”

Jensen looks up from his desktop. Finds Jared not-searching for him.

“Or is that… Would that be rude? I mean, she’s flying all the way up here. For me. I mean. I told her I’m a mess, lately, and I can’t…y’know. But she said she dun mind, and.” Helpless shrug, eye contact. Broken mouth. “What should I do?”

Break up with her. Call her, now, apologize but don’t let here come here and mess you up even more, hurt you even more. Come stay at my place, for the weekend, or we could rent a place somewhere. By the beach, maybe, if you’d like that. I’ve been wanting to go since forever but I always keep postponing it but now I want to, I crave it, I need you. “You don’t have to decide these things now. See how it goes.”

Jared hums, and Jensen turns back to his work.

~

If she’s still living in San Antonio, there’s only so many flights she could have boarded. If she’s arriving today, Saturday, the last possible plane landed half an hour ago.

Jared most probably picked her up. Gentleman and all that. Dragged himself to the packed airport, maybe taking the bus or subway. They could be having dinner, right now, something take-away or a nice restaurant. He might be forcing himself to eat, just so she won’t be alarmed. Yeah. Sounds about right.

The Kingsnake is resting in Jensen’s lap. He hasn’t moved in a while. The cup of tea in his hands has gone cold by now.

This waiting without anything actually being at the end of it… Waiting, for the sole purpose of letting time go by.

Jensen’s been on an extended run, but that was hours ago. The gym is closed by now. Should he go for another jog? Then again he’s too tired already. Shouldn’t risk an injury.

Jensen goes for the tiny kiosk a few blocks down the road. They have a variety of books but nothing strikes his interest. He grabs two medical-ish magazines, adds a beer, a protein bar. The summer leaves the city in humidity, a scent that’s rotting and molding even as it is in constant movement; sewers, trash, bars, sweat. Jensen gravitates towards the park. Lots of night-joggers around, determined and leaving Jensen by himself. He takes a seat on one of the many deserted benches and has his snack, the beer. Reads through both magazines. It’s two a.m. and there’s zero calls, zero texts.

Jensen leaves a couple of dollars in the plastic-cup placed in front of an old homeless lady whose three dogs all raise their head as he nears, but none of them barks.

~

It’s four a.m.

“It’s the meds. It’s normal.”

 _“But it’s—why now?! I’ve been—God.”_ Jared speaks hushed, teary-eye-fast. Maybe locked in a bathroom. _“It—with you, it always works.”_

Jensen’s eyes flutter closed. “It’s the drugs,” he promises, quiet and fatherly because that’s what Jared needs right now. “You can’t control it. Try to relax. Do something else.”

Jared snarls his laugh. _“What, like, fuckin’ Monopoly, Jensen?!”_

“You know you can please a woman without using your penis, right?”

_“I’ll hang up now.”_

“Don’t stress it.”

 _“Fuck you.”_ The line disconnects.

Jensen puts the phone down, is still lying on his back, on his bed, as he was as Jared called. He drifts back into sleep.

~

It’s two p.m.

Jensen remains in the tiny strip of opened front door, blocking the way both in and out. Blinks up at Jared, tall and sour with sadness and acid reflux and so thin, God, it’s so easy to forget how tall and wide he is with how little weight his bones are wrapped in.

“Can I come in?”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing. C’mon.”

And Jensen does—step back, allow Jared to push past him, tight and wound-up and, “Did you sleep at all?”

“Do you have milk? An’ some oats? Hell, I’d go with cereals. Anything?”

Jensen follows but stays in the kitchen door frame, squinting when Jared turns on the light.

There is something about watching him eat. Like feeding a stray.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Jared grants a, “No,” before he shovels another spoonful into his cheek.

Jensen only comes near him by the time Jared is close to done with his meal. Seems calmer already, but won’t let Jensen look into his eyes. Sits hunched, unhappy. Dissatisfied with his meal, with the amount of contentment a full belly managed to make him feel?

They sit, for a moment, Jared leaning back, sighing aloud, head tipped back and then he rakes his fingers over his face, into his hair, underneath the beanie. Then slumps over, elbows on Jensen’s kitchen table, hands still in his face. The sobbing starts up as suddenly as it starts explosively, and Jensen closes his eyes against the brightness of the ceiling light.

~

Jared allows himself to be showered. Jensen’s fingers bump down-up-down a protruding spine until Jared tells him to quit it. Jared sniffles, and he’s tired, petulant. Pulls away-in when Jensen touches, but scowls when he doesn’t.

Jensen towels himself dry, bends to slip back into his earlier clothes. Jared gets a hold of him then, tugs on a wrist.

Looks old with all those bones poking from underneath his skin, tight pinch of a mouth. Jared takes a stuttered breath before gathering the courage to step in on Jensen, invading all that dear space and ignoring that Jensen is pulling back; then there’s door in the back and Jared in the front and Jensen turns his head away from the kiss.

Jared nudges with nose and lips, and Jensen’s heart tips.

Murmured, “Hey,” and “it’s okay now, isn’t it?” and that’s not exactly true, but. Jensen allows it; call it curiosity, call it naiveté. Shudders his eyes closed just when they touch while Jared isn’t trembling at all, nothing but warmheavysilk until he presses in, on, and Jensen hurts.

Lets him. Lets that sigh fill him, makes his face soft so Jared can crowd in better. Pulls on Jared’s dick when his hand is being folded around it. Jared groans, “Why’s it only work with _you_?” and Jensen has no explanation Jared would understand.

The hallway is dark. All illumination over in the bedroom is what the heat lamps spare from inside the jungled terrariums. Jensen allows himself to be guided down to sit, then laid on his back. Jared is careful without really trying, but that doesn’t make it better.

Breathe. Hand to Jared’s throat. Thumb at that mouth; he’s kissing Jensen again. Rubs their dicks together, little weight that he has multiplied by the pent-up blockades he’s been dragging around like chains to his ankles.

Jensen can’t say no, but he has no yes either. Lets Jared slur his, “Can I?” but doesn’t move, lets him do all the work.

It’s scary. This hasn’t happened in so long.

Barely any sensation, so much shock, and Jared tastes like sweat and skin.

Focusing won’t help—Jensen is drifting. Knows he won’t remember any of this, later, the many peppered kisses and the gentle-determined touches. Nothing will catch until that undeniable moment of being forced to open—and then it’s nowaitstop, it’s overwhelming, crushing Jensen.

Jensen feels sweaty and throat-lumped and he still can’t move. Made a soft sound though, maybe, because Jared stills and whatswrongs him, withdraws until Jensen can breathe again.

Jared lets him be, calm down. Jensen, once down to earth enough to come out of his own head, finds him sitting by the snakes, clothed in tee and boxers, carefully choosing the tone of voice he asks his, “You wanna talk about it?” with, but Jensen’s answer remains a, “No.”

Jared has some more oatmeal in the kitchen before he comes crawling back into bed, where Jensen is still naked. Smudges their noses together, and maybe if Jared would have tried again now, Jensen would have let the kiss happen.

“You shouldn’t have.”

“What?”

“Jane. Dumping her.”

Jared opens his eyes, scoffs. “… Seriously?”

“I dunno. You seem very upset.”

“Hell _yeah_ I’m upset, that was a huge _thing_ for me, Jensen!”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

Jared pushes away from Jensen. Bark-laughs, “Dude,” and shakes his head.

“What?”

Jared rolls over, back to Jensen. “Nothing. Nothing, man.”

They fall asleep eventually, with Jensen keeping his careful-mindful distance. Wakes with his arms around Jared; Jared’s head tucked into his own chest, curled up in front of Jensen and holding Jensen’s arms.

“Are you awake?”

Jared hums, thumbs at Jensen’s skin.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Had better. Had worse.”

“Still mad at me?”

Jared snorts.

“If you want, we can try again. I didn’t wanna be rude.”

“Dude, it’s fine. I mean, if you’re not into it the other way around, that’s okay. Just coulda told me before I…dunno.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You looked hella scared. I mean, if you don’t wanna talk about your issues with me, it’s fine, y’don’t have to, seriously. S’just—it’s okay, okay? Don’t feel guilty or something.”

“It’s—” Jensen gathers his breath, his focus. “It’s—some things, I can only control one way only, not in reverse. This here, with other people, it works for me as long as I’m actively doing it. I can handle being close or, coming close to you, but. I dunno, it. It’s complicated.”

Jared processes the monologue for a fair amount of time before he murmurs, “Okay, you’re even more insane than I’d thought.”

“Does it weird you out?”

“You’re asking so many questions lately. You didn’t used to.”

“’Cause I didn’t _need_ to,” presses Jensen, aware now of how awake and loud he is because Jared turns to look at him over his shoulder. Jensen feels like running, away, somewhere. “I’m—look, I. I’m confused, lately. I’m usually—I’m better than this, Jay. If I focus, if I try hard enough—”

“It’s okay.”

“I—”

“No, look, Jensen.” Jared puts a light-light hand on Jensen’s, says, “It’s okay,” but Jensen can’t feel a thing.

Not a thing.

He draws a breath. Can hear his own heartbeat.

“It’s you,” he says, breathless in wonder. “It’s not me. You’re closing off.”

Jared blinks, tiredly, like that is anywhere enough of a reply.

Jensen very suddenly feels very alone.

“You can talk with me. About everything. You know that, right?”

Jared puts his head back into the pillows, says, “Yeah. I know. And I’ll be fine.” Has both hands cupped over Jensen’s forearms now, cold always so cold but always clinging on. “I’m just so tired. Things’ve been exhausting, with her, and. I can always sleep with you. I can see things clearer when I’m with you. Does that make any sense?”

A sigh, like he’s been on his legs for way too long.

“I just wanna sleep.”

Of course, Jensen is scared. Will think, later, that he’s been irrational here, should have trusted his guts; but that’s a paradox and he knows _that_ , so he sticks with sympathy, with pity, and grants Jared his, “Yeah, sure,” and sinks back down behind him, forehead into almost-clean hair.

What comes is a sleep so clean and so deep, like Jensen’s only ever had on the heaviest of pills, but he’s sober, and even more so when he wakes, and the world is still so so very _sharp_ :

Sweet metallic sickly scent, warm, wet around and underneath him and there’s Jared’s familiar weight, resting heavy and asleep in front of him, and that breath is barely coming at all.

Jensen’s instincts scream _blood_ and he’s wide and slammed-shut all at once. Knows what he’ll see before he does rip the covers off, knows there’ll be an empty pill bottle in the bathroom or the kitchen, and that Jared will have left his glass of water next to it because he’s lazy like that—that he carefully wiped the knife clean before dropping it to the floor in front of the bed where it’s getting dribbled on now anyway.

How long has it been? How much did he bleed yet? How much is left? Jared won’t answer, barely moves his eyes and Jensen might be screaming at him but he can’t remember the softest tug on his wrist like a ‘let me be,’ until hours later, wished he’d noticed earlier. But now sprints for the closest phone (Jared’s in Jared’s jeans, in a heap next to the snakes), rips the nearest clothes apart just so he has _any_ thing to bind Jared’s legs with—his fingers slip and slip and slip, just one small but so so deep cut each; Jared _did_ know what he’s been doing, and Jensen should have known so much better than this.

Jared leaves a trail of red behind Jensen desperately tries not to slip on while heaving the kid into the elevator, out into the street; they’re there within minutes and Jensen’s not talking unless being spoken to. They won’t let him ride in the ambulance until he shouts about being a doctor, for God’s sake, and he’s with Jared all the way up to the surgery, every second.

He’s still hasn’t got Jared’s parents’ number.

~

Missed calls, on Jared’s phone. From Jane first, his mother later. (He’s listed his parents under separate numbers, with area codes from different states.)

Jane (Sun, 01:36 pm): what the fuck jared  
Jane (Sun, 01:42 pm): where are you  
Jane (Sun, 01:43 pm): this isn’t funny where ARE you  
Jane (Sun, 02:12 pm): if I did something wrong just tell me  
Jane (Sun, 02:23 pm): please tell me you’re ok  
Jane (Sun, 04:58 pm): jay please be ok  
Jane (Sun, 06:58 pm): baby please

Jensen learns that Jared’s got a little sister and a big brother. That the last text he wrote was sent to three people in total—Jane, Dad, Jen:

_‘It’s okay.’_

There’s photos he took with Jane, yesterday. At the airport, kissing, then later, goofing around on Jared’s couch.

Jensen doesn’t tell them he’s pocketed the phone, not yet. Thumbs through endless chats, tries to find the boy he’s been seeing for weeks, listened to for weeks.

Jared’s got exactly two pictures of Jensen saved, and Jensen’s asleep in both of them. He’s dragged one of Jensen’s hands onto his thigh, slightly off-center with the bruise it had left there like a piece of puzzle, about to fit in.

The cuts—back then so subtle, so easy to overlook—are taunting Jensen. So shy and almost-not-there. Like Jensen only hallucinated the gashes last night, the blood, clumped and plenty and running into Jared’s legs, bloating them so fat so quickly.

Jensen sits outside the room, could be waiting for anyone or anything here; invisible. Parents rush past him, sobbing, then sobbing louder in Jared’s room, 067. The medics say he’ll get better, soon, but the sight isn’t pretty yet. Not with what Mom and Dad are used to, judging by so many smiling selfies, so many joyous texts.

It’s night again when he slips in. It’s calmer, then, instincts kicking in and making one’s eyes droop.

Jared is asleep, strapped to the bed. His chest rises and falls, and it takes all out of Jensen not to check for new wounds, despite all logic.

Jensen sits, close to the bed, the left-behind chair right there. Allows himself to calm down, echo Jared’s energies. Calm. Drugged to Heaven and back. They just want him to get better. Jensen can sympathize.

It’s weird, to feel so much. To be so receptive. Jensen feels the different temperatures come and go, where and how they crawl through every inch of him. Some leave traces, others don’t. He can’t bring himself to touch Jared. Not yet.

“They don’t have names,” murmurs Jensen, “I’ve always thought that was pointless. They’re numbered, in my mind, but I don’t call them…One and Two, and so on. I hadn’t given it a thought, actually, until you asked. … Thought you’d like to hear that.”

Jared remains asleep through Jensen’s visit.

They don’t call Jensen when he wakes.


End file.
